


We Come For You

by ChibiAuthorNate



Series: Embers of War [3]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, Oh Look Another Angry, Sunwell Plateau, There's A Theme Here???, killing demons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 00:22:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17090555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiAuthorNate/pseuds/ChibiAuthorNate
Summary: After learning of the true and final death of Kael'thas, Archmage Sunfury prepares to assault the Sunwell and bring Kil'jaedan to justice.--Takes place during "Worlds Apart", Book 1.5 of ChibiAuthorJessie's series "Chronicles of War".





	We Come For You

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Worlds Apart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15435060) by [ChibiAuthorJessie (manatapped)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/manatapped/pseuds/ChibiAuthorJessie). 



> This takes place between chapters 5 and 6 of "Worlds Apart" by ChibiAuthorJessie (my sister!).

Illidan’s winged form was a stark silhouette against the hellish skyline of Shadowmoon Valley. Beleron and Tyr’iel stood behind him at Kael’thas’ side, staring off into the distance with Voren’thal and the rest of the high-ranking elves gathered around the terrace. A great storm stretched from horizon to horizon, boiling across the sky like an army on the march. From within the black clouds a dark voice echoed, full of terrible power.

“Foolish little mongrel! You failed to destroy the Frozen Throne as I commanded. And still you thought to hide from me in this forsaken backwater! I thought you to be more cunning, Illidan!”

Before Illidan could respond to the insult, a great hand descended from the storm. It seized Kael’thas and dragged him into the clouds, screaming with a voice that does not belong to him. Laughter colder than the grip of death boomed loud as shambling corpses rose from the ground and dragged the other assembled elves into the dust. Beleron turned to save someone, anyone, only to watch green flames erupt from Tyr’iel’s skin. It burned brighter and brighter, Tyr’iel screaming as the fel fire consumed his flesh. Soon only ash remained, leaving Beleron standing atop the empty shell of the Black Temple, alone. Kil’jaedan’s laughter echoed across the cold stones, reverberating through the air like thunder.

~

Beleron bolts upright from the bed, drenched in cold sweat. The little sleep he has managed over the past week has been interrupted by the same nightmare, without fail. Every night the Legion destroys everything he holds dear and he is powerless to stop it.

The predawn light filters in through the curtains, blanketing the room with a soft blue haze. Throwing the blankets to the side, he walks to the window and stares up at the blank white walls of the Sunwell Plateau, the stone staring back mockingly. A week since he had returned from the Terrace, finding all inside were dead. He had not found Kael’thas’s body, only the remnants of a large pyre to mark his passing. He took the two remaining Verdant Spheres, intent on cleansing them of the Fel.

Beleron sighs. The area around the entrance to the Sunwell had been mostly cleared of demons within the past days. Only a single portal remains, providing the only reinforcements outside the plateau itself. Wave after wave of troops had been sent to seal it, but to no avail. The lesser demons had posed little issue, but the creature that commanded them was another matter entirely.

The Archmage sighs again, dragging his hands down his face. This task fell to him. He will seal the portal and lead an assault upon the heart of his people’s kingdom. A task he had never thought he would have to undertake.

Conjuring a bowl of water, he washes the sleep from his face and turns to the stand that holds the badges of his office. He dons the gilded robes and lifts the heavy armored mantle from where it rests. The weight on his shoulders evokes the last images of his father, pierced by Scourge steel in the forsaken wastes of Northrend many years ago. He tightens the straps of the vambraces and picks up the heavy cloak, the deep cerulean fabric of the Quel’dorei drawing another pang of anguish to his chest.

So much loss because of the Legion in such a short time. To the humans whom the Scourge had attacked, the last seven years has been tumultuous, but that time to an elf seems like the span of a few heartbeats. Seven years of endless struggle against the absence of magical saturation. Seven years of hedging out the undead that still shamble north from the Ghostlands. Seven years of exile and tribulation against the constant threat of madness.

Forcing the thoughts from his mind, he reaches down beside his bed and picks up the masterfully crafted sword that rests against the wall. For as long as the Sunstriders had borne Felo’melorn before it was lost at the base of the Icecrown Glacier, the Sunfury at their side has borne Felo’shiel, the Flame’s Promise. It, along with the armored mantle and the cloak, mark their bearer as the Praetor of the Sunfury Army.

For a moment he contemplates putting the blade back in its resting place and leaving the Isle. Let the armies of Quel’Thalas and the forces of the Shattered Sun assault the Sunwell without him. They don’t need him to accomplish this task. He could return to Sylvanas, resume his duties as an ambassador, and bury the last month in the farthest reaches of his mind. No more pain. No more reminders of his failures.

He looks down into the courtyard of the village below. Soldiers from both the Shattered Sun Offensive and Quel’thalas’s standing army rush about with abandon, receiving orders or relaying the news of a task completed. Paying close attention to the elves in particular, the Archmage hears a voice in the back of his mind once again.

_Be the light that guides the Quel’dorei out of this darkness._

Anasterian's words bring his thoughts into sharp focus. Every elf here is his responsibility. The welfare of his people rests solely on his shoulders - every single elf, be they Sin’dorei or the few Quel’dorei left out in the world.

He descends the stairs quickly to the common room of Sun’s Reach, finding Captain Theris hunched over the war table, moving small figurines around to symbolize troop movements.

“Captain.”

“Praetor. I did not think to see you about at this early hour.”

“Sleep has been an elusive quarry these past weeks, Captain. I shall rest soundly when these demons are gone from our sacred shores forever. And I intend to finalize that process presently. Do you have any troops available to assault that portal again? Only the best, small in number. I will be leading this attack myself.”

The Captain looks up, surprise clear in his face.

“I know of a warrior from the border guard and a Blood Knight captain offhand.”

Beleron nods.

“Find me someone to mend wounds as well. I don’t intend to lose anyone during this endeavor. A knowledgeable warlock would not be a poor choice given the circumstances either.” He spits the last words as though they leave a vile taste in his mouth.

“I’ll see what I can do, Praetor.”

~

Hours pass slowly, Beleron making rounds to make sure the portals are holding and that the warding stones are in good shape. As he finishes the overview of the last stone, a scout rushes up to him.

“Praetor! A group of individuals has been gathered as per your order. I could not locate a warlock as you requested, however I did have one very vehement volunteer. He said, and I quote, someone has to go with him and make sure he doesn’t end up lying in a demon infested ditch again.”

Beleron chuckles.

“Mavros. At least I know I’ll have one heavy hitter aside from myself.”

As the last word leaves his lips, he notices a group of elves making their way over to him. At the head of the group walks a tall elf in heavy plate mail with a black tabard embossed with the sigil of the Blood Knights in deep crimson thread upon the center. His hair is light gold, cropped close to his scalp in a fashion quite similar to the standards of the human military. A wicked looking mace hangs from his belt, occasionally clanging off the tapered point of the long shield strapped to his back. Behind him walks a female elf clad in similar plate, her long golden hair tied in a tight braid that spills from beneath her helm. Sheathed across her back are two swords that appear much too large for her to wield properly, if at all. Behind them is a young elf with rust red hair in priest’s robes, the crest of the Scryers on emblazoned on both his breast and just below the large sapphire that tops his ornate staff. Mavros saunters behind the group in his elven form, feigning interest while simultaneously watching every movement around them.

The elf in the lead comes to a halt and salutes Beleron swiftly, placing his clenched fist over his heart.

“Praetor! Knight-Captain Aethil Silverhand of the Blood Knights reporting as requested!”

Beleron returns the salute.

“At ease, Knight-Captain. This is a war zone, formalities are more lax here than the training halls. I also like to think I am less stringent than Liadrin most of the time, depending on the circumstances. And who else has arrived with you?

“Sergeant Ky’anis Brightleaf, Eastern Border Guard, at your service.” The female elf says with an exaggerated bow, the pommels of her blades almost touching the flagstones.

“Well met, Sergeant.” Beleron turns to the last elf. “You look familiar. I don’t know all the new faces to have joined the Scryers in the recent year or so, but I do feel like I’ve seen you about.”

The priest smiles.

“Na’var Highheart. I am here at Headmistress Dawnheart’s request. She got word that the plateau would be assaulted soon and informed me that I was to keep you alive or she would see to it that I became the new target subject for her advanced pyromancy lectures.”

“Well, then for both your sake and mine, do not disappoint her.”

Beleron addresses them all, calling Mavros over with a wave of his hand.

“We are going to close that last portal. It’s going to be just us, no reinforcement from the army. We go in, slay that infernal gatekeeper and stem the tide of demons so we can concentrate our full might on breaching the plateau. Once we clear its subordinates, I need the four of you so bring it down and keep whatever stragglers are left occupied. I should be able to funnel enough of my own power into the portal to cause the stabilizing runes to overload and cause it to collapse in on itself. Move out.”

~

The hour-long trek from the inn to the demon's staging ground is a quick one, the newly activated golems keeping the land clear of hostile elements. Reaching the top of a small rise, the company looks down upon the courtyard housing the last demon gate. Many shivarra and felguards mill about aimlessly, surrounded by gaggles of imps. At the far end sits the portal itself, tall spires of fel iron covered in dark pulsating runes. In its center swirls a cascade of green energy that ebbs with a sickly glow, sucking the light around it into the void beyond. In front of the portal stands a wrathguard almost as tall as the gate behind it, twin longblades clutched in its talons.

Beleron draws Felo’shiel with one hand, raising the other with an incantation on his lips. Releasing the spell, a pillar of flame drops from the sky and incinerates the closest group of scurrying imps. The felguards turn at the sound of the imp’s death cries, hefting great axes of blackened iron.

Aethil charges down the slope to meet them, Ky’anis close on his heels. Na’var calls out a prayer, sheathing Aethil in a globe of golden light before calling down pillar of his own holy fire upon another demon. As he reaches the stones of the courtyard, Aethil throws out his arm, his own shield flying through the air and slamming into the nearest felguard. The impact blasts the creature from its feet before ricocheting into the next nearest pair of demons, repeating the process. He halts his charge and calls out to the Light, the ground at his feet erupting with a dazzling glow. The first demon to reach its edge cries out in agony as the hallowed ground sears its unholy flesh.

“Come, hellspawn!” he cries. “Come face the judgement of the Sin’dorei!”

As the demons converge on Aethil, Ky’anis hurtles past him into their ranks. Her twin swords flash around her in perfect harmony, scything apart demon flesh like the sea before the prow of a ship. Na’var hurries down the slope, calling out another prayer that closes all but the most grievous of wounds quickly. Beleron mutters a short spell and teleports himself behind the fighting, as close to the portal as he can manage without being drawn in by its dark currents. Thrusting Felo’shiel at the center of the gate, he begins to pour his magic into the blade, using its enchantment to strengthen his ritual. So intent upon his purpose, he does not see the few demons who have noticed him begin to approach.

As the first felguard’s axe is poised to strike, its wielder is crushed beneath a massive boulder. Its companion then simultaneously ripped apart by a scalding stream of molten earth. Mavros stands with his back to Beleron, hurling rock, both molten and solid, at any foul thing that creeps to close.

“I knew if I wasn’t here, you would end up dead!” He chides, screaming over the din of the fighting.

The wrathguard senses the influx of power behind it and turns, glaring down at the two elves with hatred in its eyes.

“We’re about to have some rather troublesome company!” Mavros shouts.

He hurls a blast of lava at the things chest, but it seems mostly unaffected.

“Very troublesome! Whatever you’re doing, old man, do it quick!”

Beleron forces more power into the blade, straining to keep it contained until the incantation is complete. He hears the intake of breath from the demon at his back, poised to end him with one swift stroke.

“For the glory of Quel’thalas!”

The demon shrieks so loud it almost shatters his concentration. With one last burst of will, he finishes the incantation, releasing the flood of energy from Felo’shiel’s tip into the portal. The runes along its edges flare bright green in an attempt to compensate for the influx of power, but the magic of the Sin’dorei proves greater than that of the Legion. With a metallic shriek no earthly creation could make, the hellgate collapses in upon itself, leaving nothing but a smoldering pile of blackened iron slag where it once stood.

Turning to Mavros, Beleron claps him on the shoulder with a strained laugh. “You couldn’t handle one demon? Some mythical creature you are.”

“I was handling more than one. And I use different tactics when not in my natural form. Half a dozen opponents is a tad trickier when I am considerably smaller.”

“Then how did you stop it from cleaving me in half?”

“Me? I didn’t stop it at all. You have her to thank for that.”

Both of them turn to see Ky’anis yank both her blades out of the wrathguard’s back as its body begins to dissipate. Jumping down before she loses her footing, she jogs over with a sly smirk on her face.

“Well, that was fun. Please tell me there are more like that one inside the plateau to play with. I want something bigger!” There is a spark in her eyes that makes Beleron inherently uncomfortable.

“I’m sure there are, Sergeant. Let us make sure the rest of our band made it out as safely as we did.”

They find Na’var tending to an open gash running from Aethil’s left temple down to his collarbone. His shield, gorget and helm have a deep cleft running through them, the edges blackened as if by fire.

“Is our Blood Knight all in one piece?” Beleron asks.

Na’var looks up from his work, hands still aglow, slight irritation plain on his face.

“Glory to our people aside, this one decided to get the attention of one too many demons at a time. He’s lucky he still has his head.”

Aethil laughs heartily.

“I’m fine. The bastard got in a lucky swing. Besides, I have you here to put me back together and I had everything under control.”

Na’var lets out an exasperated breath through his nose.

“Of course you did, that’s what they all say when nothing is under control.”

“Quit complaining. We’re all still alive, aren’t we? By the way, Praetor, that was some impressive work with the portal. Where did you learn that one? Seems like it isn’t something they cover in the Academy.”

Beleron’s words almost catch in his throat.

“I…I learned that from the Prince actually. While we were in Outland, we faced demons on a regular basis. They began to foil our basic strategies for closing their portals, so he had to improvise. Kael’thas surmised that pouring enough power into them would overload them and destroy them with feedback.”

Ky’anis grins.

“It worked well enough, explosion was nice and bright. I think it’s time to report back to the Captain. Get this show on the road so we can get into the plateau and find something bigger to tangle with!”

Aethil stands with a groan, Na’var grasping him by the shoulder. He picks up his shield and leans on it momentarily.

“I’m fine nursemaid, just a little woozy. Let’s get back so I can get all this repaired before the assault.”

 

~

The journey back is as uneventful as their way there, Aethil stumbling occasionally. They all disperse once they reach Sun’s Reach, Beleron finding Captain Theris in almost the same spot as when they departed.

“Captain! I am pleased to report the portal has been closed. We can begin preparations for the attack on the Sunwell proper.”

Theris looks up from his maps.

“Praetor, I had not expected you back so soon, it is only just now passing midafternoon. Was there less resistance than in the past attempts?”

“No less resistance, just more concentrated weaponry. The members of this group are quite skilled. I think they will be accompanying me inside the Plateau. The ordeal was, however, quite draining on my part. I shall be retiring for the present. I would assume we shall be attacking at first light?”

“We shall. I will see to it that the final preparations are made. Al diel shala, Praetor.”

~

The rest of the day and the night pass swiftly, Beleron getting restful sleep for the first time since before departing for Outland. He wakes and prepares himself much as he did the previous morning, descending the stairs to find a page waiting for him, holding the reigns of a magnificent crimson hawkstrider.

“The Captain assumed you would want to address the army at daybreak. They have assembled at the gates to the Plateau and await your arrival.”

Beleron mounts and takes the reigns.

“Thank you. Join the army as quickly as you are able.”

He rides quickly, passing over green hills and beneath golden trees. Up the thoroughfare and through the assembled ranks of Shattered Sun and Thalassian soldiers, he stops short of the massive gate that leads to the once glorious heart of the elven High Home.

A muttered incantation amplifies his voice so that it might carry to all corners of the island, that no ear might be deaf to his words.

“Deceiver! We come for you! For all the pain and suffering you have brought upon us! For all the children who lie dead because of your treachery and deceit! For the defilement of our lands at the hands of your misbegotten servants and failed kings! The Children of the Blood come for you!”

He turns to the assembled force before him and draws Felo’shiel, holding it high over his head. The light of the rising sun catches the blade and turns it the bright red of fresh blood. His cry is the cry of a shattered people, filled with sorrow and vengeance.

“Tal anu’men no Sin’dorei!”

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _Tal anu’men no Sin’dorei_ means "Death to all who oppose the children of the blood" in Thalassian.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated!


End file.
